1960 Zenith 50 Transistor

Lewberg had this childhood friend called Peter ‘don't call me Pinchas’ Lieberman. Neither Goldfarb nor I liked him very much. As little as we liked him, it was still more than Lewberg did. Lieberman would fly down to Miami, and Lewberg, partly out of loyalty and partly out of pity, would arrange to golf with him in the afternoon then take him out to Joe’s Stone Crab down in Miami Beach for dinner. Goldfarb and I were not schlepping down to Joe’s, which took no reservations, and Lewberg wasn't about to sit with him for four hours in the golf cart and then four more between the car ride and the dinner, so he called in his markers with us and we would alternate each year as to who would ride in the cart with him.

There was nothing really wrong with him but he was the kind of guy who thought conversation was just asking as many questions as possible. Most of the time, he didn’t even care about the answers.

Of course, it poured once we got to number 1, and so we hightailed it back to my house to wait it out.

We were barely in the door when he started up.

“How much do you figure these radios are worth?

“Do you have insurance?”

Then fifteen minutes about his friend who had his watch collection stolen. Lewberg was hitting the Ketel and cran harder than usual and Goldfarb was the walking definition of schadenfreude.

Lieberman then got to my transistor cabinet and he did what every other five-year-old does - he opened the cabinet and started turning on radios. I wasn’t sure what Lieberman’s deal was, but now he was on a roll - turning on transistors, tuning into what appeared to be a Florida State sporting event - the noise was both deafening and unbelievably annoying – and then switching to the next. Then, just as quickly as he turned them on, he turned them all off and closed the case.

He looked at me and said, “22.”

Then he smiled.

And I said, “22?”

And he said, “22 transistor radios playing at the same time. That’s got to be some sort of world record.”

By now Goldfarb and Lewberg walked into the room and joined the discussion.

“No chance that’s a record,” said Lewberg, “not even close.”

“What do you know about it,” Lieberman said, now clearly hurt.

“Just think of a Yankee playoff game,” he continued, “there could easily be 1000 transistor radios listening to the game. You guys are way off.”

“Seems a little random,” piped in Goldfarb. “1000 individual people listening to the game; well, that’s not a coordinated event. I mean, I don't think that would count.”

“You see!” Lieberman poked Lewberg with the traditional ‘you see’ poke.

“Let’s look it up,” I said. And so, four more-than-middle-aged men, took out their phones and asked Google, Siri, along with Guinness and other record-keeping and world record authorities, what the record was for the most amount of transistor radios playing at the same time.

We all reached the same conclusion.

There was no record.

It did not exist.

“Doesn’t that mean I now hold the record?” asked Lieberman.

And Lewberg, with a sly smile said, “no my dear Pinchas. You made a record which did not previously exist. Nobody cares about that. You know what people care about?”

We all knew the answer, even Lieberman, but it was Goldfarb who said it out loud.

“Breaking records,” he said triumphantly.

“That’s right Goldfarb my friend,” replied Lewberg, still smiling, “breaking records.”

“So,” I said, working it out on the fly, “in order to be recognized we need to break an existing record?”

“That’s right.”

“How are we going to do that?”

And Lewberg said, “boys, the rain has stopped.” But before he said that, he first said, “I think I have a guy.”

Lewberg’s guy, who I was pretty sure was the panhandler who worked the corner of I95 and Palmetto, had never seen a transistor before. He alternated between asking, “why is the sound so shit,” and, “why don't you just use Spotify?” He also had a bit of an attitude about the lack of severity of our mission. “Lewberg,” he kept saying, “this is really lame.” Lewberg had said this guy was the best so I didn't beat the shit out of him. Instead, I handed him the press release I had crafted. I won’t share the whole thing here but the gist of it was this:

Yvonne Goolalong Senior School in Perth, Australia celebrated their 60 years of existence by, in a touching homage to their history, playing 1963 hits on vintage transistor radios at the famed Cottesloe Beach. The hits were provided by the local radio station. And the transistors were loaned by local and very supportive radio enthusiasts and collectors. In doing so, inadvertently or not, they set the record for the greatest amount of transistor radios played at one time.

The record, one which I had made up out of thin air, was 125. I included a lovely photoshopped picture of students holding up transistors on a beach which was originally iPhones at a concert. Ain't technology grand. The picture wouldn't pass a sniff test but nobody would be sniffing.

“Aren't you being a little ambitious?” asked Lewberg.
“Gotta be a challenge,” I replied, “otherwise, what’s the fun in it?”

“Yeah,” joined in Lieberman, “we are going to crush those wimpy Australians.”

I didn't have the heart to tell him there were no Aussies.
Nor did I tell Lewberg that I didn't own 125 working transistors.

The wires printed the press release word for word. None of the legit papers or news stations picked it up, at first, but that didn’t matter - if you now Googled ‘world record for the greatest number of radios playing at the same time’, our little fake school, complete with fake quotes from the principal and the homecoming queen, would pop up.

And, as we all knew, if it was on the internet, it was probably real. I had set the trap.

Now all I needed to do was find my fish and reel her in. But our old friend Pinchas was already ahead of me.

Neither Goldfarb, Lewberg nor I had been fraternity members. Lieberman, on the other hand, had pledged Sigma Beta Phi at the University of Michigan. He called the chapter president, who he affectionately still called his ‘brother,’ at the University of Miami. It took less than a week. They would team up with a sister sorority, and have a huge beach event in South Beach. All we needed to do was provide the transistors. Their chapter would handle all PR and marketing. We agreed we would share the record.

I went on an eBay buying spree.

I did not care about style, model, color or design.

I only cared if they worked.

I only cared if I could get it fast.

In the meantime, I checked my website and found the transistors I had filmed playing music. Those were the working transistors.

In the end, I had 130 working transistors.

Lewberg thought I was cutting it close.

“Lewberg,” I said with a mocking laugh, “the beach is going to be teeming with bikini-clad women and strapping young men. You think there’s going to be somebody there checking to see if every transistor is working?”

A Miami radio station joined in on the promotion. They refused to play hits from the 60s because it was off-brand. The record-breaking song would be from somebody called Bad Bunny.

Three TV stations showed up.

The fraternity chapter had preselected the transistor team but hundreds, maybe even a thousand, more people showed up, and a riot nearly broke out when we ran out of transistors.

Goldfarb, unusually attired in a bathing suit, said, “you know you’re not going to get any of those radios back.”

I had figured that.

It was, I decided, the price you had to pay for fame.

Lewberg was not in a bathing suit. I had actually never once seen him in any body of water.

But, he seemed happy enough, drinking his Ketel and cran out of a red plastic party cup.

“I can’t believe you pulled this off,” he said, raising his cup to salute me.

“Piece of cake,” I replied, raising my own beer, “piece of history.”

But Lewberg was not the only person not wearing a bathing suit. When his arm dropped after the salute, I saw a diminutive man scurrying his way towards me on the beach.

He had trouble making progress because he was wearing shoes.

Black oxford loafers.

Which matched his black suit.

He was perspiring heavily by the time he got to where I was standing. His, I have to say pasty, skin, looked like it had never encountered the sun before.

“Are you in charge of this little shindig?” he asked me in an accent I could not place.

Also, who says shindig anymore? “I am,” I replied.

“Arthur Moriarty,” he said, thrusting his hand for a shake. “I’m from Guinness.”

“I see,” I said. I had sent Guinness countless emails and letters.  They had not replied to one.

“Yes,” he nodded, “do you think I could have one of those beers? I’m parched.”

Alanis Morissette would find it ironic that the guy from the beer company did not have a beer.

I handed him a can of beer. He took a long slug.

“Yes,” he wiped his mouth as elegantly as he could, “as I was saying, I'm from Guinness. We are, of course, in charge of the integrity of the Guinness Book of World Records. Head office has sent me to monitor your event.”

“Really?” I said. “That’s fantastic!”

I pointed to the throngs of transistor waving people.

“As you can see. It’s the real thing.”

“Yes,” he said. Then he sneezed. “I’m afraid the pungent scent of sunscreen is playing havoc with my allergies.”

“Shame,” I said, “is there something I need to sign? Do I get some sort of official document? Maybe we can take a picture?”

He sneezed again. “Yes, all in good time. But first, I need to count and test the transistors.”

“You what now?”

“Have to count and test the transistors. You are claiming 130 working transistors,” he had pulled out a document from a briefcase I had only just noticed, “cutting it a little close, aren't we?” Then he smiled. “The current record, of course is 125 working transistors in, let me see, Perth Australia. Lovely tennis player she was.”

“Who?”

“Yvonne Goolagong. Then Cawley, of course. Are you a tennis fan? I had the good fortune to be at the Isner longest match at Wimbledon. Wasn't even my assignment. Was on vacation with the wife. I guess I was born for this job. That’s what I tell the wife when she complains I travel too much. Now, maybe we can set up a little table under that umbrella. A little shade might be nice.”

I have to give the fraternity brothers and sorority sisters credit. They were able to corral their transistor-holding members in fairly short time. Honestly, I don't think we lost more than two or three.

Wouldn't have mattered anyway.

Only 112 worked.

The thing is, I get no AM reception in Boca. So, a lot of the so-called working transistors were getting their signal from my home transmitter. Which had a range of about 100 feet. Now, in theory, they all should have worked because Miami has a much better signal.

But they all didn’t.

To be honest, 112 was pretty impressive.

Only the Miami Herald carried the story. “Boca Raton Radio Collectors Fail in Their Attempt to Break Record.” Then went on to say that an Australian high school, which I had invented, still held the record.

There’s a nice picture of me holding up a 1960 Zenith Royal 50 though.

Nice radio.

Plays really nicely.

When I got home, I cracked open a beer and put on some Bad Bunny through my transmitter.

It wasn't bad. Not bad at all.

The End